“You know how to reach me if you need anything," Jameson says as he moves toward his car. Sheriff Fury is talking with two other deputies just as they each break off.
This feels like a much bigger problem now.
As I brush past my mother, she’s flipping off the sheriff as he gets back into his squad car. “Wynona,” she calls out after me.
I look at Julian, who just stands there waiting. He feels like the kind of guard I wouldn’t have minded being there for me when I was younger, ready to rescue me from my mother and her bullshit when it presented itself. He tilts his chin up, and it feels like a wordless confirmation that he’s there now if I need him.
When I turn, Lu is holding up her phone. She shows me the screen—a picture of me and my sisters when we were kids, and the time—before looking over my shoulder to Julian. “That can wait,” she says walking past me. “We’re making after-midnight margaritas. Birdie and I need to have a chat with you at home.”
“Lu, I’m not in the mood for?—”
She stops and turns back toward me, cutting off what I was going to say. “I’m not asking, Wynona.”
When I look up and see Birdie leaning in the doorway, I instantly know what needs to be discussed. My stomach bottoms out at the thought of what I might hear.
Chapter Fourteen
Wyn
“You’re goingto have to talk to me eventually, Professor,” he seethes.
Twelve weeks, and I haven’t said a single word. My skin feels like it’s crawling with tiny bugs, but it’s simply the feeling of sweat dripping and slowly evaporating with the extreme changes in temperature—a sweltering humidity to the crisp cold. A train car came first, but I was in and out of consciousness for the ride. Then I was kept in a dark, smaller space, bound and gagged, brakes jerking me around enough to feel sick to my stomach. And now, I’m here.
Time doesn’t feel like it's moving, but as I study the hairs that’ve grown from my legs and the length of my nails, time isn't slowing down. Maybe death is just taking its time decidingif I’m worthy of it. I’m almost certain if anyone had started looking, they would have stopped by now. I know I’ll die here. The sharp sawing of a serrated knife cuts through skin with a burning sensation at first, and then sheer pressure and pain rattles my nerve endings as it seesaws through muscle up my side. I swallow a scream and plead with any kind of higher power that the depths of this will stop. Fear lingers like an old habit. Defeat doesn’t feel like losing. Bravery never arrives.
The sound of cabinets closing and glass bottles clanging on the counter pulls me from the memory. I blink away emotion that threatens to drench me—not here, not now, not in front of them.
After a few moments, I finally focus on Birdie and my mother laughing at something I missed. The fact that I’m trying to pause a panic attack so my mother and grandmother can tell me how they’ve likely killed a man is so troubling that maybe I should just start laughing too.
The only relief is that I know these women—they raised me. And watching the easy way they are with one another has me feeling more jealous of not having that ease with them than scared at hearing about what they’ve done.
“I think Mr. Colton might have been right, Wyn,” Birdie says, holding up the bottle of limoncello I brought over. She glances at me, her eyebrow quirked. “You looked like you were more than comfortable behind the bar tonight...” She trails off.
“Maybe so,” I answer, smiling. “Felt good to be back there with Stevie and Jo.”
My grandmother reads the undercurrent of things. She’s always been good at that. An empath who could effortlessly read between the lines of what wasn’t being said. There’s too much more to my story that she doesn’t push me to know.
“Birdie’s right; interesting display at the bar, Wynona...” Lu gives me a pointed look. Opening the fridge, she fills her armswith limes and drops them onto the counter so that they almost roll off and fall everywhere. “There’s a jam cake in here with your name on it,” she says, tipping her head toward the refrigerator, like making an entire cake for a single person is a completely acceptable practice. And even though her tone sounds annoyed, like it was something shehadto do, cakes are her olive branch. Tallulah Crowne is good at a lot of things, but she’s exceptional at holding grudges, running a bar, and making the most delicious desserts—specifically, cakes. Until about seven months ago, the last cake she made for me was when I was still living at home. Sweets are the only language my mother and I speak flawlessly. We didn’t have massive heartfelt moments or paint each other's nails to bond over bullshit. I know she missed me because she’s been leaving me cakes ever since I’ve been back—a thief who breaks into my house simply to leave me a baked good, even after being a dick to my face.
“I’m rationing the last one you left me. It came out too good,” I tell her honestly, and I catch her lips twitch with a smile as she turns back toward the margarita assembly line she and Birdie have going.
I watch the two of them behind the counter. They’ve always operated more like sisters than mother and daughter. When my sisters and I were young, we moved into Birdie’s place. Our father up and left my mother without so much as a note. Disappeared, moved on, left his family behind for something or someone else.
People have always had a funny way of disappearing in Rumor. And now, watching Birdie cut limes as my mother scoots around, looking for tequila, there’s a nagging feeling that my mother and grandmother know a bit more about that than they’ve let on.
And I can’t help but wonder if Stan Billings isn’t the first.
Birdie always said,“There’s always a dab of truth in every rumor; it’s up to us to decide what to believe.” But what she’s gearing up to tell me—a truth I’ve already mostly figured out on my own—I haven’t considered what that could mean.
“You can’t use whiskey for margaritas, Lu,” Birdie says in her low and slow drawl.
But it’s the echo of both me and my mother saying, “Yes, you can,” that has her eating her words. I smile to myself.At least we can agree on some things.
“After midnight, margaritas should only be made with whiskey,” Lu says, tossing in the entirety of the quartered limes. Next comes a can of coconut milk into the blender and a hefty pinch of salt. She pops the top back on and flips the blender on for another thirty seconds.
I rub at my wrist, feeling the smooth leather of the cuff beneath my fingers. I work to focus on its texture instead of the sound and my creeping nerves.Stay present. Take a breath.
When the blender stops, the room is quiet as Lu pours out three large glasses of the thick, slushy drinks.
